The Death of Ivan Ilyich — by Leo Tostoy

7

How it came about would be impossible to say, because it happened imperceptibly, inch by inch, but in the third month of Ivan Ilyich’s illness it came to pass that both his wife, his daughter, his son, the servants, and friends, and doctors, and, above all he himself all knew that their only interest in him lay in how quickly he would vacate his post at last, free the living from the constraints imposed by his presence, and himself be freed from suffering.

He slept less and less; he was given opium and injections of morphine. But it made things no easier for him. The dull misery he felt in his semisoporific state at first relieved him only by being something new; but afterward it became as harrowing as frank pain, or even worse.

They prepared special food for him in accordance with the doctors’ instructions, but the dishes grew more and more tasteless and disgusting to him.

Special arrangements were also made for his excretions, and he found them unbearable every time. He was tormented by the dirt, the indecency, the smell, and the knowledge that another person had to take part.

But in this most unpleasant business Ivan Ilyich’s consolation came to light. It was Gerasim, the peasant who served at table, who always came to carry out the soil.

Gerasim was a clean, fresh young peasant who had thrived on city food. He was always bright and cheerful. At first the sight of this lad, always cleanly dressed in the Russian style, doing this disgusting work, discomfited Ivan Ilyich. Once he got up from the commode and was unable to pull up his trousers. He fell into a padded armchair and looked in horror at his powerless naked thighs with their starkly marked muscles.

Gerasim entered with his light, strong step in his thick boots, bringing with him a pleasant smell of tar from his boots and fresh winter air. Wearing a clean homespun apron and clean cotton-print rubakha,30 his sleeves rolled up his strong, bare young arms, and not looking at Ivan Ilyich—evidently withholding his pleasure in life that shone in his face, so as not to offend the sick man—he went up to the commode.

“Gerasim,” said Ivan Ilyich weakly.

Gerasim started, evidently alarmed that he might have done something wrong, and with a quick movement turned to the invalid his fresh, kind, simple young face that was just beginning to show signs of a beard.

“Can I do anything for you?”

“I think that must be unpleasant for you. You must forgive me. I can’t help it.”

“Not at all, sir.” And Gerasim beamed with white young teeth and bright eyes. “Why shouldn’t I take a little trouble? You’re not so well.”

And with deft, strong hands he did his usual task and went out on light feet. And five minutes later returned stepping as lightly as before.

Ivan Ilyich had not moved from the armchair.

“Gerasim,” he said, when the lad had replaced the clean pan. “Could you help me please? Just come over here.” Gerasim came up. “Lift me up. It’s hard for me on my own, but I told Dmitri he could go.”

Gerasim came right up to him; put his strong arms around him; and with the lightness of his step, deftly, gently lifted him up and steadied him, pulling up his trousers with the other hand. He was about to sit him down again, but Ivan Ilyich asked him to take him to the divan. Effortlessly and without apparent pressure, Gerasim led him, almost carrying him, to the divan and settled him down.

“Thank you. How lightly, how well . . . you do everything.”

Gerasim smiled again and wanted to leave. But it felt so good to be with him that Ivan Ilyich did not want to let him go.

“I tell you what; move up that chair for me, please. No, that one, under my legs. It’s easier for me when my feet are raised.”

Gerasim carried the chair across, set it down steadily without knocking it, and lifted Ivan Ilyich’s legs onto the chair. It seemed to Ivan Ilyich that he felt better while Gerasim was lifting his legs up.

“I feel better when my legs are high,” said Ivan Ilyich. “Put that cushion over there under them.”

Gerasim did so. Once more he lifted up his legs and put them down again. Once more Ivan Ilyich felt eased while Gerasim was holding up his legs. When he laid them down he seemed to feel worse again.

“Gerasim,” he said to him, “are you busy at the moment?”

“Not in the least, your honor,” said Gerasim, who had learned from the city folk how to speak to the gentry.

“What have you still got to do?”

“What, me? I’ve nothing to do, I’ve done it all—there’s only the wood to chop for tomorrow.”

“Then hold my legs up like that a bit, could you?”

“Of course I can.” And Gerasim lifted up his legs, and it appeared to Ivan Ilyich that in that position he felt no pain at all.

“But what about the firewood?”

“Don’t you worry about that, sir. We’ll find time.”

Ivan Ilyich told Gerasim to sit down and hold his legs, and talked to him. And, strange to say, it seemed to him that he felt better while Gerasim was holding up his legs.

From that time Ivan Ilyich began calling for Gerasim occasionally. He would make him hold his legs up on his shoulders, and liked talking to him. Gerasim did so lightly, willingly, with a simplicity and kindness that touched Ivan Ilyich. He was offended by health, strength, and good spirits in everyone else, but Gerasim’s strength and cheerfulness soothed him rather than hurting him.

Ivan Ilyich suffered most of all from lies—the lie that everyone accepted, for some reason, that he was just ill, not dying, that he need only keep calm and take his medicine and something splendid would come of it. And he knew that whatever the medicines might do, nothing would come of it except more agonizing misery and death. He found this lie insufferable; he was tormented by the fact that nobody wanted to admit what he knew—what everyone knew—but chose to lie to him about his dreadful state. They wanted, even forced him to participate in the same lie. Lying—the lie inflicted on him on the eve of his death, the lie which was bound to degrade the fearful, solemn scene of his death to the level of all those visits, curtains, and sturgeons for dinner . . . this was a dreadful affliction for Ivan Ilyich. And—it was strange—many times when they were doing their stuff over him, he was within a whisker of shouting at them, “Stop lying! You know and I know I’m dying, at least you could stop lying to me.” But he never had the spirit to do so. He could see that the terrifying, awesome act of his dying was reduced by everyone around him to the level of a casual unpleasantness, to some extent an offense against propriety (rather in the way people behave to someone who brings a bad smell into the room with him). And this was the propriety he had served all his life. He saw that no one would pity him, because no one even wanted to understand his position. Only Gerasim understood his situation and was sorry for him. It was good for him when Gerasim held his legs on his shoulders, sometimes for whole nights at a stretch, and did not want to go to bed, saying, “You mustn’t worry, Ivan Ilyich, I’ll get my sleep another time,” or when he once slipped into the intimate form of address, saying, “With thee so poorly, how couldn’t I spare a little trouble?” Gerasim alone did not lie to him; it was obvious from everything that he alone understood what was happening, saw no need to hide it, and was simply sorry for his weak and wasted master. Once he even said so straight out, when Ivan Ilyich was sending him away: “We’ll all go someday. Why not take a little trouble?” he said, expressing in this way that he did not grudge his pains precisely because they were taken for a dying man and he hoped that in his own time someone else would take the same pains for him.

Apart from this lie, or as a result of it, the most painful thing for Ivan Ilyich was that no one pitied him as he wanted to be pitied. At certain moments after long-drawn-out pain, he wanted most of all (ashamed though he would have been to admit it)—he wanted someone to pity him as a sick child is pitied. He wanted them to stroke him, kiss him, cry a little over him, as children are cuddled and consoled. He knew he was an important member of the court, that his beard was going gray, and so it had to be out of the question, but it was still what he wanted. In his relationship with Gerasim there was something close to this, and consequently his relationship with Gerasim comforted him. Ivan Ilyich wants to cry, he wants to be stroked, to have them crying over him—and in comes his friend, court member Shebek, and instead of tears and tenderness Ivan Ilyich puts on a serious, stern expression, a face full of profound thought, and through sheer inertia pronounces his opinion on the implications of the decision taken by the Court of Appeal, and stubbornly insists on his view. More than anything, this lie around him and in himself poisoned the last days of Ivan Ilyich’s life.